29. Franny

I feel sick. Then again, I'm always feeling sick lately. My mind is down in the gutters and my stomach churns with every breath I take. My dad hasn't woken up and even I know that he should have by now. Sometimes I want to just stand by his bedside and yell at him. Tell him how much of an idiot he is, that he should have never gambled and that it's his fault that he's lying there.

But that only makes me want to cry. I cry a lot now, it seems. I should probably be worried about that. The stinging pain in my eyes shouldn't feel normal. Everything that's happening right now shouldn't seem normal. Yet it is. A man getting beaten nearly to death is normal. That thought runs around my head a lot. How normal and plain all of this seems. I feel blank and cry my way through it, but nothing has a shock factor.

It's almost like I've become immune to it. Like the danger is hanging by a piece of thread that will eventually snap. Something always snaps. Now and then I think it's going to be me. Things turn out so shit that I can't help wondering if I'm already snapping and falling away.

Miss Joit is talking in drama class again. Her arms are flying everywhere. Tyler is nowhere to be seen. I chew on my bottom lip and wring my hands together. We are sitting in a circle as usual, yet I feel like I'm on the edge, at the outskirts and out of view. It's a lonely feeling. I wonder if that's why Tyler always sits off to the side—maybe he likes that feeling of loneliness.

In that moment, the door crashes open and Miss Joit looks over, fiercely angry. When she sees who it is, her gaze softens a little.

"Tyler," she says curtly. "Do you have a late slip?"

He shakes his head and makes his way over to the circle, ignoring the teacher's gaze along with everyone else's. It's only when he gets closer that I see what everyone is gawking at. Tyler's cheekbone is bruised, turning a mix of dark green and yellow. It looks painful. But knowing Tyler, he's probably barely noticed it.

He grabs a chair and drags it to the circle, placing it down loudly beside mine.

"Alright, guys." Miss Joit snaps her fingers. "Focus."

When the rest of the class turns to pay attention to her, I tilt my head over to Tyler. "You weren't in history," I whisper.

"Face was irritating me," he says. "Hit was harder than I thought."

"And who gave you that hit?" I ask pointedly.

"A friend," he says grimly. "A mentor of sorts."

"You could have told me you were going to see him," I say.

Tyler shrugs and drops his arm down the back of my chair, but he doesn't touch me. "It all kind of happened fast. I didn't have much time to think. Didn't even know if I was going to come out of it, to be honest."

I frown at him. "You can't just say stuff like that."

"Like what?" he scoffs.

"Like you're not gonna fucking make it back out," I say. Tyler sighs.

"I didn't mean anything by it," he says.

"That doesn't mean you can say it," I snap. "Because I'm the one that has to hear it."

Tyler stares at me before sighing and slouching in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. "Your dad hasn't woken up, has he?"

"Stop changing the subject," I mutter, bending forward to bring my bag out from under my chair. I open it up and sort through it until I find my pencil case. I pull it out, but it gets stuck on the corner and won't come out. I yank it over and over again.

"Piece of shit," I curse and slam the entire bag down on the floor with a resounding thump.

"Francesca," Miss Joit calls out, "do I have to send you to the office or will you be quiet and listen?"

I look up and don't bother to compose the look of thunder on my face before it is directed right at my teacher. She raises an eyebrow at me and I raise one back.

"Get out," she says evenly.

My eyes widen. "What did I do?"

"I won't have that kind of attitude in my class," she says. "You're either here to learn or you're not here at all. Now get out."

My jaw clenches. "No."

"I'm not going to repeat myself, Francesca. Get out of my class before I get someone to remove you."

"Then get someone."

I know Tyler is looking at me—everyone is. The teacher is looking directly at me but even though I stare right back, it doesn't feel like I'm even talking to her. It doesn't feel like I'm even staring at her.

"That's it." Miss Joit sighs and stands up from her chair. "Sorry, class."

She walks over to the phone by the door and begins to talk to someone on the other end. Her arms are still moving erratically. The rest of the class is looking at each other and giggling with wide eyes. I seem to be the main source of entertainment—fitting for a drama class.

Tyler's hand is on my shoulder suddenly, but I don't turn to him.

"Franny," he says. "Franny . . . come on, look at me."

"Francesca," a new voice says from the direction of the doors. "A word, please."

I shrug off Tyler's hand and stand up, leaving my bag behind as I walk over to the main doors. One of the vice principals, Mrs. Nicks, stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. Miss Joit gives me a stern look and walks off back to the rest of the class.

"I didn't even do anything," I say.

Nicks nods. "Well, come on, let's take a walk and you can tell me what did happen. Apparently, you were being disruptive."

She holds the door open for me and I walk out. "I wasn't being disruptive," I snap. "She's just being a bitch today."

"Franny," Nicks scolds.

"It's the truth!" I splutter. "I didn't do shit."

Nicks eyes me carefully and we slow our walk down the hallway. It's empty apart from two girls at their lockers a few feet in front of us off to the right. Nicks then comes to a complete stop and turns on me. I tilt my head to face her.

"Is this about your dad?" she asks softly. "I know he's in the hospital and I know stuff like this can be hard on students as well as the stress from work—"

"Jesus Christ!" I laugh, cutting her off. "I don't need a diagnosis."

"I'm just trying to help you, Francesca," Nicks says. "People can act out during situations similar to yours. I just want to make sure that things with your dad are okay."

I hear a snort behind me.

I ignore Nicks and turn around to face the two girls who are still at their lockers. They look to be sophomores. "You got a problem?" I ask.

One of the girls shakes her head, but her mouth is pulled into a smirk.

"No," I say, "come on. Tell me. What the fuck is your problem?"

"Francesca, leave it now," Nicks says from behind me, but she's just background noise now.

"Come on, Francesca," the girl says, laughing a little, "don't take it personally. Everyone knows about your dad now, anyway."

"Wanna clarify that?" I ask as the bell for the end of class rings and people start coming out of their rooms.

"Francesca, let's go, now!" Nicks yells.

The other girl pipes in at that point. "Well everyone knows he's a complete fuck-up that gambled all your things away."

And then I snap.

That little piece of thread goes. That one little grip I had on my emotions. Just like that. In one quick, clean swoop. There's nothing left over. Just anger—red, hot and burning.

I don't realize what I'm doing until I surge forward and push the girl, grabbing the collar of her shirt. Her head slams back against the lockers. She screams but it's not in pain. Just an irritating scream of weakness.

Hands are on my shoulders, trying to pull me off. I slam the girl one more time against the lockers before I'm dragged completely off her. She tries to go at me but another teacher holds her back. People are surrounding us, some silent and some loud.

"Stop!" Nicks and the other teacher yell.

I thrash in Nicks' grip on me. The other girl keeps trying to go at me but she's all over the place.

"If you talk shit about my dad again, I'll fuck your face up so bad, you bitch!" I screech.

I aim a glob of spit at her and she finally breaks out of the teacher's hold and manages to get far enough to grab my hair. She yanks it down and Nicks is already there, trying to get her off. I grit my teeth as the pain goes through my scalp, stinging at my eyes. I grab her wrist and shove her away.

She stumbles back.

People think that's it. The fight is over. The teachers have hold of us and we'll be marched out. Something to talk about for the rest of the day. More giggles and wide eyes. But I'm pissed and I'm all over the place. I'm a complete train wreck by now. So I do something stupid.

I punch her in the face.

I let Nicks pull me out. I don't struggle when I'm taken to the office. I don't look back and worry over the girl. There is this numbness—it's nice. But I'm starting to learn that it's also dangerous.

***

The office is quiet, apart from the constant tapping of keyboards in front of computer screens. I sit in one of the many chairs in the little waiting area. There's a window right beside me so every time someone walks down the hallway, they look right at me. I pretend I don't see them.

I'm waiting for them to decide what to do with me. It's a sort of agonizing wait and I see now why so many people hate it.

The door opens silently and I look up as Tyler creeps in. He doesn't look at me as he slowly lowers himself down on the seat beside me, trying not to be noticed.

"I say you have about ten minutes before they realize," I say.

Tyler looks at me. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know."

"Luckily, you've got a shit punch," he mutters. "She's just got a bruise, she'll live."

"As shit as Carl?" I ask and lightly trail a finger down his cheek where it's discolored.

His hand comes up grabs my wrist. He sighs and leans over, pressing his forehead against my fingers as his hand comes up to cup them.

"How bad is it?" he asks.

"They're still deciding," I say. "You angry at me for hitting her?"

He shakes his head. "I heard she was talking about your dad. I would have probably done the same thing."

"So now you're encouraging acts of violence?" I tease.

Tyler doesn't smile. "I get it."

I laugh a little. "Get what?"

"Why you snapped," he says. "You got angry, right? Wanted violence instead of talking. Felt moody, all the way down into every part of your brain? I've felt that, too. And it won't go away unless you make it, Franny. Stop letting every little bit of violence in your life fuck you over."

"You're talking like it's from experience," I comment.

"I got into fighting for a reason," Tyler murmurs and his hand tightens over mine. "But that anger won't just go. It will grow and grow and grow. Don't let it do that, okay?"

"Okay." I nod slowly.

He stays for a little longer and I flex my fingers so that our hands are clasped together instead of one over the other. I stare down at them. "This is different."

Tyler smiles a little and runs his thumb gently over my swollen knuckles. "Good different or bad?"

I look up at him and slowly reach over to press a kiss to his bruised cheek. "Good different."

- Ellie x